


Simple Choices

by C3P0h



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, F/M, I'll add more tags as we go, Slow Burn, expect some artistic liberties taken with the history, gleb-centric, i mean i guess, idk where I'm going with this, if we ever get to the romance lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C3P0h/pseuds/C3P0h
Summary: He was a boy who lived the truth behind the tale. He saw the Princess Anastasia walk into the Ipatiev House. She was never supposed to walk out.





	1. Arrival at the Ipatiev House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i blame ramin karimloo for this

April is coming to a close on the day the Romanovs move into the Ipatiev House in Yekaterinburg. Soon Spring will be over, and with it the oppression of the tsarist regime. The red heat of Summer will usher in a new era. A _better_ era.

The promise of change is heavy in the air as Gleb Stepanovich Vaganov watches the royal family march to their new home – their last home, he tells himself. He doesn’t know that yet, not for sure. But as Gleb glares at the Romanov family, his muscles twitch under his skin, begging for action. The thick cotton of his Bolshevik uniform is heavy on his shoulders, and Gleb wants to prove how easily he can move under its weight. He wants to show how well he can use the rifle held across his chest. His father reminds him every chance he gets that Gleb is more boy than man, but at twenty years old, Gleb is tall and broad-backed, hard lines of muscles pulling at the seams of his clothes. A dark shadow of stubble has begun to grow across his jaw.

 _I’m ready,_ he wants to shout. _Let me fight for our new Russia._

Gleb shoves the words down, his fists clenching around his rifle. He stands at attention, only his eyes moving, watching the Romanovs. He is a good and loyal Russian. He will do what’s been asked of him. And right now, the means standing and watching as the Romanovs are escorted on all sides by his comrades. He’s been placed just outside the gate in front of the Ipatiev House. The structure is huge and foreboding, a white brick of a building that’s somewhere between prison and palace, and surrounded on all sides by a great wooden fence.

It’s too much for the Romanovs, Gleb decides. _Let them waste away in squalor like we did._

Righteous fury is harder to control, but Gleb fights to keep his composure. He will not embarrass the Bolsheviks. Not in front of _them_.

His _Former_ Imperial Majesty, Tsar Nikolay Aleksandrovich Romanov walks past him, head held high. Gleb can see over the top of his head, he realizes with a petty sort of satisfaction. Alexandra Feodorovna follows after her husband, as proud and cold as a Russian Winter. It rankles Gleb, that they still carry themselves as though they’re above the common folk. He wants to ask them what happened to their fine clothes, their palace, their many servants. He wants to answer, and tell them that they belong to the _people_ , now.

The children follow behind their parents. First comes Maria, sturdy and sweet faced despite it all. Her older sisters, Olga and Tatiana, aren’t far behind, their eyes straight ahead. Then comes the little Tsarevich Alexei. Of everyone in the family, he is the first one to look frightened, his eyes darting every which way to look at the tall, straight backed men in uniform surrounding him.

And suddenly Gleb isn’t watching the Tsarevich – he sees instead a small, sickly boy who clings to his older sister’s skirt with a white knuckled grip as he looks up in fear at his captors.

Gleb feels – _weakness_.

He tightens his jaw and stomps the feeling down, as thoroughly as he’d stomp down upon a rat skittering across the floor. He pretends he can hear it snap and die under his boot.

Alexei Nikolaevich is a boy, it’s true. Gleb knows this. But he also knows the feeling of a stomach gone too long without food, the way the pain stabs at his insides and steals the very life from his body and sense from his mind. He knows the desperate, dirty faces of his countrymen as they ask when they will finally be liberated. He knows the fear and anger that pulse through Russia like a heartbeat, driving her forward, ever _forward_ , to a final tipping point.

A revolution is a simple thing – but not an easy one. Gleb would kill the boy himself if it meant Russia would be free.

He lifts his chin as the Tsarevich passes, his dark eyes straight ahead.

A high bark cuts through the air. Startled, Gleb can't help the way his head turns, eyes snapping to find the source of the sound. It's a small brown dog. The final Romanov child has it cradled close to her chest as she runs her fingers through its fur and makes quiet cooing sounds. She walks with her full attention on the dog, her voice drifting through the air in hushed whispers that he can't quite make out. He watches her as she draws near, following after her family. Anastasia Nikolaevna is a teenager still, short and with a softness that betrays her easy life. 

 _Well,_ Gleb supposes,  _not anymore._

Her hair, a dirty blonde color, falls around her face, blocking it from his view. But the closer she gets, the more he can see how her hand trembles as it pets the dog. That traitorous weakness twitches to life again, crawling its way through his insides. She's afraid.

She's barely a foot away from him when he can finally make out the words in her quavering voice. 

_"–Ils ne nous nuiront pas–"_

The little chit is speaking  _French_. It's the reminder of who she is – of _what_ she is – that he needs. She  _should_ be afraid.

Anastasia Nikolaevna is passing in front of him when, impulsively, Gleb raises his boot and stamps it down on the cobblestone to produce a sharp  _crack_ of sound. It has the desired effect. She jumps, letting out a startled gasp. Her hand is frozen and stiff in the little dog's fur, and she curls in on herself, her shoulders scrunching up. Anastasia stands like that for half a moment, shaking, before she cautiously raises her head. She turns to look at Gleb, but her eyes fall on the uniform covering his chest. Her gaze pauses on the rifle. She has to tilt her head to look up and meet his eyes. Gleb looks down at her, careful to keep his smugness off his face. Anastasia looks up at him with wide, almost startlingly blue eyes, her lips parted. He holds her gaze and stands a little taller, trying to give off the same aura of a powerful, commanding Bolshevik, that his father wields so well. Anastasia looks down at his boot. Then back up to his face. 

Gleb can't help but raise an eyebrow, a silent challenge. He waits for her to lower her gaze and hurry along after her family.

Instead, something hardens in her eyes as she stares back at Gleb. The princess draws herself up, raising her chin. His eyes widen. His muscles tense, his knuckles turning white as he grips his rifle. The same anger that spurred him before swells in his chest again, and Gleb can already feel his teeth grinding against each other. This spoiled little brat! _He's going to_ –

Gleb never finds out what he's going to do. The guard behind Anastasia finally gives her a rough shove forward. She gasps and stumbles, and the moment is gone. Gleb's rage begins to cool as he watches Anastasia Nikolaevna pass through the gate, never looking back at him.

He realizes the guard who pushed her is still standing in front of him. Gleb snaps his head back to look at the man – Yermakov, he realizes with a sinking feeling. The older man just stares at him, a smirk curling his mouth. Yermakov looks Gleb up and down before snorting, apparently deciding he isn't even worth a snide remark. He turns and walks through the gate.

Anger mixes with embarrassment as Gleb tries not to deflate, cursing his own impulsiveness. He feels like a child. He doesn't pay attention to the train of attendants and the rest of the guards that walk past him. 

The gate eventually slams shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea where this is going


	2. A Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there she sits, her elbow on the window sill, her chin propped up by a fist. The sunlight threads gold through her hair and makes her skin glow. For a moment, Gleb's struck again by how young she is. But her youth takes nothing away from her nobility, even here in this prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> strap in everyone, because it looks like i'm continuing this.

It’s late May. Spring is in its last days. The Romanovs have been living in the Ipatiev House – renamed the House of Special Purpose – for almost a month. Everyone has fallen into a routine. Gleb, along with the rest of the soldiers, rotates through different assignments. He walks perimeter of the house, or stands sentry at the gate, or patrols the hallways and rooms. At night he returns to his own home down the street, where he lives with his mother and father. He’s lucky to live in Yekaterinburg already. Otherwise he’d be stuffed in a tiny cot in a cramped room with eleven of his comrades in the House of Special Purpose, or across the street in the Popov House with the rest of the soldiers. 

The former Tsar – now simply Nikolay Romanov – tries to keep up some sense of normality. He takes brisk walks through the garden with his daughters every day. He exercises. He sings his daughters to sleep and delights his son with old fairy tales. Gleb hates him for it. Nikolay the Bloody, the terror of Russia, murderer and oppressor, has no right to act this way.

Alexandra Feodorovna and her oldest child, Olga, display proper behavior. Of everyone in the family, they alone seem to grasp the gravity – the  _finality_  – of their situation. They withdraw from everyone but their family, hardly even speaking to the few attendants they've been allowed to keep. Alexandra, weak from the stress and confined to a wheelchair, clutches her frail son close to her chest at every opportunity. She whispers prayers under her breath until she sees a guard. Then her mouth snaps shut and her eyes turn downcast. Olga sits sullenly on a chair in the corner of the room she shares with her sisters, reading quietly. Sometimes her sisters try to coax a smile or laugh from her with a game or petty gossip about the guards. They rarely succeed. Gleb has to fight the urge to sneer whenever he sees Nikolay or Alexandra, but he’s almost comfortable around Olga.

She is a prisoner. He is a guard. Their roles to each other are simple.

Her three sisters, however…

“They’re charming,” laughs Sadchikov. He’s reclining in the couch of one of the mansion’s sitting rooms (it’s the most ridiculous thing Gleb’s ever seen – who has so many rooms in their house that they need one just for  _sitting_? This is why the country’s a mess.) with his arm stretched across the back. Skorokhodov, another guard, sits on the other end. At least  _he_  sits properly, straight backed and tall. It's not like they’re  _working_ , or anything. 

“ _Charming_?” echoes Gleb. Sadchikov shrugs with an easy smile. Everything seems easy with him. He’s a young man about Gleb’s age with golden hair and warm brown eyes. Apparently, he’s made a name for himself already as a talented soldier in battle. Gleb tries not to envy him.

“Yes Vaganov, it’s a word we use to describe people who don’t just glower menacingly at pretty girls.” Sadchikov’s voice is teasing and light, but Gleb bristles all the same.

“They aren’t just  _pretty girls–”_

“Oh, I  _know_ ,” Sadchikov cuts him off, his smile turning cheeky.

“ _And Commander Yurovsky’s_  forbidden fraternization.” He hates how petulant he sounds.

There’s mischief in Sadchikov’s eyes as he turns and looks at Skorokhodov to say, “Well, what the commander doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” This finally pulls a shy smile at of Skorokhodov.

At 19 years old, Skorokhodov is one of the few guards younger than Gleb. He’s a tall, skinny thing without much muscle to him yet, but Gleb has faith that with time Skorokhodov will come into his own as a Bolshevik. He laments Sadchikov’s influence.

“Besides,” Sadchikov continues, looking back at Gleb, “Nikolay the Short and the German bitch can go to hell, but the children? What are they guilty of?”

"They're complicit–" Gleb's nearly shouting before he's cut off yet again.

"I like them." He freezes, startled that it's  _Skorokhodov_  who speaks out. The younger boy glances between Gleb and Sadchikov. "They're nice," he continues after some hesitation. Sadchikov grins again, triumphant. Gleb fights the urge to just throw his hands up in defeat and stomp out.

"That's the spirit," laughs Sadchikov as he reaches over to thump Skorokhodov on the back. Skorokhodov's small, shy smile is back. "Pretty young women, cooped up with handsome young men for days on end? That's a fairytale just waiting to happen. Won't be long until one of us whisks a princess away for a sordid romance." A blush is creeping across Skorokhodov's face.

"Careful," Gleb warns, his eyebrows furrowing low over his eyes.

“It’s an innocent enough fantasy,” Skorokhodov pipes up. Gleb's eyes snap to him and he presses his lips together. Skorokhodov looks down from Gleb's glare.

"There, see?" Sadchikov says, pulling Gleb's attention again. "A fantasy. Harmless." His smile is starting to wane.

“Yes, I'm sure the firing squad will think it's harmless after they shoot you for it,” Gleb bites out. The room is quiet. Gleb has time to regret his words. Sadchikov's smile is finally gone. He sighs before pushing himself up from the couch. He strides up to where Gleb is standing against the wall by the door, and raises his arms to grab Gleb by the shoulders.

“Truly, you are a most upstanding Bolshevik, Comrade Vaganov." He says it like he's indulging a child. Gleb tightens his jaw. "I’m sure Lenin himself will be by with commendations for you soon." He claps Gleb's shoulders once and then lets his hands drop. Gleb can feel heat creeping up his neck from beneath the collar of his uniform. His fists clench at his sides. "Be sure to remember us common folk after your promotion, hmm?" Sadchikov says as he turns away to walk back to the couch. 

Gleb is frozen where he stands, watching Sadchikov's retreating back. The heat has made it all the way up to his ears, now. Whether it's from anger or embarrassment, Gleb can't say. His jaw works, as he looks for something to say. His gaze darts to Skorokhodov. But the boy's eyes are still downturned. 

Gleb finally forces himself to move. He turns to the door and stomps out. Gleb fumes as he marches down the hall, shoving his way past the few patrolling soldiers he sees. He smells vodka on most of them. It only makes him angrier. 

Sadchikov's a  _fool_ , he tells himself.  _He knows I'm right. This isn't a game. His stupid fantasies are going to get him killed._  It does little to ease his temper. Gleb has to remind himself as he storms through the house that he actually  _chooses_  to spend his idle time with Sadchikov and Skorokhodov. Sometimes he even  _likes_  them. Maybe he wants to punch Sadchikov in his  _stupid smiling mouth_ , but Gleb doesn't want anything to happen to him.

The Bolsheviks demand loyalty.

Gleb passes another soldier reeking of vodka and his upper lip curls in disgust. 

He's stomping aimlessly through the mansion, no particular destination in mind. But then he catches sight of a familiar open door. It's the princesses' room. Gleb tightens his fists again and tells himself he's not going to stop. He'll walk right by it and continue his patrol. He'll glance through the door, at most.

Gleb reaches the door and turns his head to look. He stops walking.

Anastasia Nikolaevna is alone, sitting in a chair on the far side of the room, gazing out of the open window. It's the one window in the entire mansion that's been allowed to open, for ventilation purposes  _only_. No one is allowed to be close enough to look out of it.

And there she sits, her elbow on the window sill, her chin propped up by a fist. The sunlight threads gold through her hair and makes her skin glow. For a moment, Gleb's struck again by how young she is – nearly 17 years old, two years younger than Skorokhodov. But her youth takes nothing away from her nobility, even here in this prison.

Gleb catches her eyes flick to look at him, before going back to the window. He swears she leans further towards it. Anger shoots through him.  _Brat_. He straightens, fully turning towards her.

"Away from the window," Gleb orders in his most commanding voice. Predictably, Anastasia does nothing. That familiar heat starts creeping up his neck again. He opens his mouth again when she finally leans back and  _deigns_ to look at him. They watch each other as Gleb waits for the inevitable. He takes a breath again to speak when – 

" _Tu es très moche quand tu es en colère_." Like clockwork. She gives him a sweet smile. Gleb's fairly certain his face is red. 

He's heard her speak clear, perfect Russian before – talking with her sisters or charming the guards, when she doesn't know he's nearby. She knows only Russian is permitted in this house – he's told her so enough times. But as soon as she sees him, ever since that first day her family arrived in Yekaterinburg, she switches to French.

This proud,  _defiant_  girl.

There's a wicked gleam in her eyes as Gleb steps forward, taking a breath to –  _what?_  Reprimand her? But before he can do more than step into the room, a voice cuts through the air.

"Ah, there you are." Gleb freezes. Anastasia's smile drops as she looks over his shoulder. It seems all her confidence has drained out of her. Gleb looks behind him to see Yermakov leaning against the doorframe. He looms over Gleb, casting a dark shadow. But Gleb can still see the way his smile cuts across his face. For once, vodka isn't thick on his breath when he speaks. "Your father was looking for you, Glebka." His irritation spikes at the nickname. Gleb glares up at Yermakov. Suddenly, Sadchikov doesn't seem quite so infuriating. "Shift rotation. You're on perimeter." Yermakov's gaze shifts from Gleb to Anastasia behind him. Gleb turns to see her.

She's frozen in her chair, wide eyes staring at Yermakov. Her mouth is a thin line, her hands fisted tight in her lap. She looks at Gleb.

He realizes he doesn't want to leave.

"Best not keep Papa waiting, Glebka." Gleb rounds on Yermakov, pressing forward so the older man has to step back. Gleb crosses into the hall and slams the door shut behind him, closing Anastasia away. He doesn't look at Yermakov as he pushes past him, marching down the hall towards the stairs. 

His heart pounds in his ears. Yermakov is a giant, bloodthirsty brute of a man – a disgrace to the uniform. Gleb hates him. Of course he'd hesitate to leave him alone with Anastasia – with  _any_  of the princesses. Any good Bolshevik would. 

He repeats this to himself over and over as he shoves open the front door to walk around the perimeter of the House of Special Purpose. He pulls his rifle strap over his shoulder to carry it in front of his chest. With each step, he just grows more frustrated. First Sadchikov, then Anastasia, now Yermakov – it seems everyone is set on infuriating him today. 

Does  _no one_  understand the situation but him? They are soldiers. They have their orders. They are to guard the Romanovs in the House of Special Purpose until –

…Until this comes to an end. Gleb isn't a fool. He's not like Sadchikov or Skorokhodov, deluding himself into thinking this can end with a happily ever after. He can see the writing on the wall. The Romanovs won't survive to see the end of the revolution. 

That thought used to bring him comfort. 

Gleb tightens his grip around his rifle, suddenly angry with himself. It  _should_  bring him comfort. Russia will be better for it. The past needs to be buried before they can move on. Sadchikov's words echo in his mind.

_But the children? What are they guilty of?_

He fights to shove down the traitorous thought. They're complicit, he tells himself. They were pampered in their palace as Russia was starving and bleeding at their father's whim –

Anastasia's face flashes in his mind. He sees her gazing out the window, poised and defiant. He sees her frozen and wide-eyed as she looks between him and Yermakov. 

 _She's just a girl_. Gleb shakes his head and growls to himself, his frustration building.  _That doesn't matter_. He is loyal. Nothing matters besides Russia. This… this  _weakness_  he feels is just because of Yermakov. Yermakov with his smugness, and his predatory smile, and his  _Best not keep Papa waiting, Glebka._ Hate for the older man pumps through his body like blood as he stomps another lap around the house. Yermakov, who always treats him like a child, looking down on him.

Gleb turns his head towards the house. He doesn't know how he knew, but when he looks up it's directly at the window. Anastasia still sits there, gazing out, her head once again propped up with her fist. She looks down and finds his gaze. He freezes.

It's like he never even  _spoke_  to her, like he isn't a guard at all and he never gave an order, he's just some boy trying to talk to a princess. Something snaps inside Gleb. 

He's not a boy, he's not weak, he's a  _Bolshevik_ –

In a single, swift motion Gleb brings his rifle up and fires a warning shot. Anastasia yelps and jumps away from the window as a small dent is blown in the great white wall, a meter to the left of her. The reality of what Gleb's just done slams into him. He lowers his rifle to stare wide-eyed at the bullet hole and for the second time that day he feels regret seep into his bones. Gleb doesn't have long to consider it. Someone is marching towards him.

Gleb turns to look and he pales. Stepan Vaganov, dark eyed and furious, is storming towards him from across the lawn. Fear is sharp and cold as it shoots through him like a lance. He can't help but take a skittering step backwards – but that's all he manages. Then his father is upon him. 

Stepan raises a single, wide hand and brings it down across the side of Gleb's head. Gleb lurches to the side from the impact but then he's grabbed by the collar, a hard fist pinching his skin. Stepan yanks him forward to look at him. With his other hand he rips the rifle from Gleb's grasp and throws it to the side. 

" _What was that_?" his father hisses. Gleb can't find the words to answer, can barely think over the ringing in his ear. "What were your orders?" he demands. "Were you ordered to fire?" Gleb can't get his voice to work. He shakes his head instead. Stepan releases his grip, shoving Gleb back. Gleb stumbles, but manages not to fall. He can only stare at his father, lips parted as he waits for whatever comes next.

Stepan glowers at his son, chest heaving with anger. He looks Gleb up and down. Finally, he looks away with a disgusted huff. Gleb lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Shame is already starting to replace his fear.

"Go home, Boy." Gleb freezes at the words. "You're dismissed for the day." Then his father turns and walks away. Gleb can only stand there, frozen as he watches his father's back. Stepan rounds the corner of the house and then Gleb can no longer see him. 

Other men have gathered outside to investigate, Gleb realizes. He only sees them now that his father is gone. Some still have their rifles at the ready, no doubt alerted by the gunshot. Sadchikov and Skorokhodov are there. Gleb looks down at the grass before he can decipher their expressions. He hears a voice – Sadchikov – murmur something. Gleb chances a look back up to see that the men are slowly starting to trickle back towards the front door of the house. Sadchikov stands there for a moment longer. Then he turns too, and leaves.

Gleb is alone with his shame. He looks down again, his mouth pressed in a thin line. Something hard and cloying is stuck in his throat. It burns behind his eyes. He curls his hands into shaking, white knuckled fists at his sides as he looks at his discarded rifle on the grass. Gleb has to force himself to move, to bend down and retrieve it. He straightens up and pulls the strap over his shoulder. He takes a step – then stops. Fear is tight around his heart as he starts to turn his head. He doesn't know if he hopes to see her or not.

Gleb looks back up at Anastasia's window. Yermakov peers down at him, smirking. He raises his hand and waves. Gleb snaps his eyes forward again and marches home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gleb the pleb, amirite?


	3. What Revolution Is For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this once, Gleb can allow himself to see her as Anastasia, rather than a Romanov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a huuuuuuge huge thank you to everyone who's read, commented, kudo'd, and bookmarked! holy shit guys, i'm so happy you like this.  
> sorry this chapter took so long to get out. next one should be done sooner!

June brings a familiar Summer heat. Gleb thought he would’ve found it a relief after the bitter Russian chill, but somehow the heat is stifling – almost oppressive. He blames it on the fact that he’s been stuck in a mansion with dozens of other soldiers for nearly two months. They’re all growing restless. Gleb likes to think he hides it better than most – better than Sadchikov does, at least.

The two of them are in yet another sitting room (what _is_ it with sitting rooms? Why are there so many? Are there so many rooms that they just didn’t know what to do with them all? Why not just make bigger, _useful_ rooms?) and Sadchikov leans against the far wall, looking despondently at the boarded-up window as Gleb sits on the couch. Sadchikov heaves a sigh. Gleb rolls his eyes.

“You realize _you_ aren’t a prisoner, right? You can, in fact, go outside.”

Sadchikov turns his big, brown eyes on Gleb and sticks his bottom lip out in the stupidest pout Gleb’s ever seen. He fights to keep from smiling.

“But Comrade, my _orders_ –”

Gleb’s arm flashes out to grab a throw pillow beside him and he chucks it at the other man’s face. Sadchikov cuts out with a laugh, raising an arm to block it. Gleb glues his eyes to a wall, fighting to keep a straight face. Heat creeps up his neck. It’s not the burning shame it would’ve been a month ago, though. It’s cooled to a tingling warmth. The feeling is almost pleasant.

Sadchikov scoops the pillow up from the ground and saunters to the couch. He drops into it beside Gleb with enough force to make the cushion bounce under his weight, pillow clutched to his chest.

“Assaulting a fellow officer is a punishable offense, Vaganov.”

“My apologies,” Gleb responds flatly, still looking at the wall. He’s almost certain he has his expression under control now. “Would you like to report it to the commander, or shall I?”

The knuckle of a curled finger lifts and turns his chin, and suddenly Gleb is looking at Sadchikov’s face.

Golden hair, warm eyes, and an easy smile. Gleb’s brain momentarily stops working. His breath catches in his throat.

“You’re lucky,” Sadchikov says. Gleb’s eyes flick down to his smirking lips. “I’m forgiving.” Then he drops his hand and shoves Gleb’s shoulder. And the moment is gone. The heat is back, burning up his neck and through his ears. It scalds him as he snaps his eyes away, to the floor, to the wall, to the boarded window – anything but Sadchikov. 

Sadchikov’s amused chuckle is a low, light thing as he stretches himself out, one arm draping along the couch back behind Gleb. Suddenly his uniform is too hot, he breath too shallow, his heartbeat too quick. He glances back at Sadchikov.

But Sadchikov isn’t looking at him anymore. Instead his gaze lands somewhere over Gleb’s shoulder. Something suspiciously like disappointment shoots through him. He turns to follow Sadchikov’s gaze.

Maria and Anastasia Romanova are peeking around the doorframe. Gleb freezes. Maria’s eyes are darting quickly around the room. Not Anastasia’s, though. No, the youngest Romanov daughter has her eyes locked on Gleb. Suddenly he isn’t thinking about Sadchikov anymore.

He can’t help but drop his gaze.

Somehow, this concession betrays the Bolsheviks. Gleb shouldn’t be bowing his head to a Romanov, he thinks angrily. He shouldn’t be _ashamed_ in her presence, shouldn’t act like a dog with its tail between its legs.

He’d given her a warning!

…A warning _shot_ , maybe, but he hadn’t been actually aiming at her. She was fine! _She_ should be ashamed, not him, for flippantly disobeying orders!

When Gleb feels sufficiently worked up, his gaze shoots up to look at her –

To see she is idly inspecting her nails. This somehow makes him angrier. His chest puffs as he takes a breath, when he’s cut off.

“Ah, Maria Nikolaevna,” Sadchikov greets brightly. Gleb snaps his mouth shut and turns to glare at him. Sadchikov is very pointedly not looking at him, but Gleb doesn’t miss the cheeky curve to his smile. “Anastasia Nikolaevna. What brings you here?” Gleb looks back at the two girls. Anastasia has her face trained in a pleasant expression, eyes on Sadchikov, while her older sister hesitates, glancing between the two men. “Looking for something?” Sadchikov broaches. “Some _one_?” Maria’s eyes widen and she jolts to attention. Anastasia is looking at her sister, a sly smile growing on her face. Gleb raises a confused eyebrow. He glances back at Sadchikov.

The man is grinning, mischief in his eyes. Maria is turning pink.

Realization strikes Gleb. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to run his hand down his face. _Skorokhodov._ The infatuated idiot. Maria Nikolaevna and Skorokhodov have been doing a piss poor job of hiding their little flirtation over the past few weeks.

“Don’t worry about Officer Vaganov,” Sadchikov’s voice cuts through Gleb’s thoughts. Gleb opens his eyes to see that Maria keeps throwing worried glances his way. “It’s the brooding and the barking that give the bad impression. He’s really not so bad.” He shoots Sadchikov a glare.

“The flying bullets might also give a bad impression.”

Gleb freezes. It’s the first time he’s heard Anastasia speak in nearly a month. And she’s _deigned_ to speak in Russian, this time.

Gleb is almost hesitant when he turns to look at her. She’s still avoiding him, gluing her eyes to Sadchikov instead. But her chin is high and there’s a haughty, challenging lift to her eyebrow. No one speaks. For some reason, Gleb does.

“Right, well,” his voice is softer than he expects it to be, almost cautious, “good thing my aim isn’t better.” The urge to put the end of his rifle in his mouth and pull the trigger is suddenly all-consuming. _Why did he say that?_ It sounded like he’d _meant_ to shoot her, but he’s just too incompetent to do the job properly! Everyone is still, the air seemingly caught in their throats. They’re all staring at him. Gleb can’t move. The silence goes on too long. Gleb opens his mouth again.

“That was a joke.” _Yes, well done Vaganov._ Anastasia and Maria look dumbfounded. The urge to eat a bullet somehow grows stronger.

Gleb is fairly certain he’s about to die right there and then when Sadchikov finally, _mercifully_ breaks the silence.

“Look,” he declares too brightly, “a sense of humor.” He gives Gleb a rough pat on the back. The blow nearly knocks the breath from Gleb’s lungs. Well, not like Gleb was doing much breathing anyway, what with how mortified he is. Maria and Anastasia glance at each other. Maria has an eyebrow raised in an expression that’s somewhere between bewilderment and concern. Anastasia though… Gleb’s eyes pause on her. Her brows are pulled together and she seems to be struggling to school her expression. But there, just at the corner of her lips, the beginnings of a smile betray her. There’s a light in her eyes that she can’t quite put out.

And suddenly his humiliation isn’t quite so terrible. Something loosens in his chest – something that’s been tight and guilty ever since he fired at her.

Despite himself, despite his proud Bolshevik station, Gleb finds a small spark of hope grow in his chest.  The Romanov princess might forgive him. A new guilt tightens around him. The knowledge that he shouldn’t want or _need_ her forgiveness, shouldn’t hope for it at all, is harsh and bitter. But it’s small. Maybe he can put that aside. Maybe this once, Gleb can allow himself to see her as Anastasia, rather than a Romanov.

He relaxes in his seat. Sadchikov glances at him, a curious look on his face as he senses the change. Gleb meets his eyes with a small smile.

Someone heavy-footed and clumsy comes barreling down the hallway. Gleb immediately straightens, alert. The girls look towards the sound, past the doorway. Maria’s face immediately brightens, a smile lighting her expression. Anastasia just looks amused. Skorokhodov stumbles to a stop before the two of them, barely visible to Gleb from around the doorframe. Gleb pushes his lips together in a thin line. He casts a worried look to Sadchikov at the display, Skorokhodov with his hair askew and his chest moving up and down too rapidly as he looks down at Maria with a breathless smile.

It's dangerous. More dangerous is how Maria is looking back at him, cheeks pink and eyes bright.

"Maria Nikolaevna," Skorokhodov greets in a gentle, hesitant voice.

"Officer Skorokhodov," she murmurs back. From behind her sister, Anastasia catches Gleb's eye and sticks her tongue out, a look of mock disgust on her face. Gleb can't help the short huff of breath that escapes him, almost a laugh. Skorokhodov and Maria both jolt at the sound, realizing that they aren't alone. They look through the doorway with wide eyes at Gleb and Sadchikov.

"Oh please, don't mind us," Sadchikov drawls. Gleb can hear the smirk in his voice without looking at him.

"I- I uhm," Skorokhodov starts, glancing down at his feet.

"Did you have something to tell me?" Maria boldly pushes onward, pointedly ignoring their audience. She looks at Skorokhodov until he can't help but meet her gaze. Gleb's fairly certain all of Skorokhodov's blood has pooled in his cheeks. 

Well, maybe there's some blood left for other parts of his body. Gleb certainly wouldn't be surprised.

Skorokhodov lifts his chin and seems to steel himself.

"Happy birthday," he says, like he's announcing new orders. Maria's face lights up. Gleb raises a confused eyebrow. It was her birthday? Skorokhodov  _knew?_

"You remembered," she says, her voice sweet and delighted. 

“ _Quelle surprise."_ Gleb starts at the warm breath in his ear, the whispered murmur raising the hair on the back of his neck. He turns to see Sadchikov leaning into him, close enough that Gleb can make out the pupils in his dark eyes, see the slight way his skin tugs and wrinkles around his mouth as he smirks. In some distant part of his mind, Gleb wonders which of the girls taught him French. But Sadchikov's smile grows, and the question is forgotten. 

Somehow Gleb forces himself to look away, to turn his head to look back at the scene in the doorway. Anastasia is looking between Sadchikov and Gleb. She is thoughtful. Gleb feels his face heating. 

Skorokhodov is fiddling with something in his uniform, and the sound of cloth rubbing against a box bulging against the fabric of his coat. 

"I, uh," he stammers, face still red, "I have something. For you." Maria looks up at him patiently, a fond smile on her face. "For your birthday."

"You didn't have to," she demurs. This is a bad idea. That's all Gleb can think as he looks between the two of them, with their warmth and affection for each other. He casts a worried look at Anastasia, but she's not looking at him anymore. She's peeking around her sister's shoulder, trying to catch a glance of whatever it is Skorokhodov has hidden away.

He turns instead to look back at Sadchikov, as though he needs  _someone_ to share this worry with. Gleb can't be the only one to know that this is dangerous, no matter how innocent it seems. 

They are guards. The girls are prisoners. Their roles to each other  _have_ to be simple. The Bolsheviks won't accept anything else.

But Sadchikov looks back at him with soft eyes and Gleb finds himself looking at the curve of his smile. Sadchikov looks back at Skorokhodov and Maria fondly as the two murmur to each other like school children. 

And Gleb can't help but hope that maybe this is innocent. Maybe this is a fantasy they can allow.

 

Eventually the girls scurry away to some corner of the house, no doubt to giggle and gossip about Skorokhodov, while he excuses himself. Sadchikov and Gleb run out of excuses to avoid their duties and go their separate ways. But Sadchikov is never far from Gleb's thoughts. Unfortunately, Skorokhodov and Maria and their worrying affection aren't either. 

The day stretches on into the familiar tedium of patrols and watches. Gleb tries to lose himself in the routine. He is unsuccessful. Dusk bleeds red into the sky, staining the few clouds lingering in the summer heat. It's nearly time for Gleb to be dismissed for the day when he sees one of his comrades, some short bearded man who struggles to walk straight through his drunken haze, come stumbling towards him. Gleb gives a disgusted huff, but glues his eyes forward, eager to pass him. But the guard marches up to him, glassy eyes on Gleb's face.

"Comrade!" the guard slurs, too loud. Gleb suppresses a sigh and stops, standing straight backed with his hands clasped behind him. "Comrade, Commander Yurovski's callin' for us." That surprises him. Gleb finally looks at the man.

"What for?"

"We're searchin' the house. Some report about the Romanov's getting outside help. We got uh– a tip."

Gleb curses to himself. "Thank you, Comrade," he says with a short nod. Gleb brushes past him, marching towards the front of the house to report to the commander. 

It's not the first time a report like this has come in. There are still Romanov sympathizers in Russia, even here in Yekaterinburg. And with the war steadily moving closer to the town, the commander is more paranoid than ever. But as regular as these searches are, they've yet to provide any results – no one even officially knows that the Romanovs are being kept here.

But still, Gleb reports to the commander like the good soldier he is, before entering the house to help conduct the search.

He inspects the parents' room. A sitting room. The kitchen. Another sitting room. One room after another is cleared, by either him or another soldier. He sees his father every now and then, doing his part to search the house. 

Gleb opens another door lining one of the many hallways. He stops when he sees Anastasia jolting upright, eyes wide. She's sitting in a chair against the far wall next to a closet. There's a small wooden box perched on her lap, and a half-eaten, fluffy looking pastry held delicately between two of her fingers.

A muffled thump sounds from behind the closet door. Anastasia's still frozen, eyes on Gleb. All the color has drained from her face. Gleb's eyes widen.

The tip was legitimate. 

He marches forward just as Anastasia scrambles to her feet, the box clattering to the floor. She rushes toward him, eyes wide and pleading, but Gleb has steel in his eyes and his jaw is clenched tight. There are voices now, whispering frantically from behind the door, and more rustling. Gleb pulls his rifle in front of him.

"Wait,  _please–_ " but Gleb is pushing Anastasia aside, ignoring her desperate whisper. He steadies himself as his hand curls around the doorknob. He waits half a breath before he turns it and pulls it open, rifle ready when –

He sees Officer Skorokhodov and Maria Nikolaevna Romanova, flushed and breathless. She's on top of him, clutching at the mess of cloth that is her dress, clutching it to her chest. Skorokhodov had been fiddling desperately with his belt buckle when Gleb had opened the door. Now he's only staring up at him, hands still.

Gleb gapes at them, can only stand there as he tries to take in the scene.

Over and over again, the same words echo in his head.

_This is dangerous._

His eyes dart between Maria and Skorokhodov. He needs to report this. He can't bring himself to move.

A shadow falls over him. Maria and Skorokhodov look over his shoulder, fear in their eyes. Gleb barely has a chance to turn when his father is pushing him to the side. Stepan descends on them like the night, thunder in his dark eyes, and in a moment Skorokhodov is hauled up from under Maria. She falls to the side with a gasp as Stepan yanks Skorokhodov out of the closet. Gleb can only watch as his father marches towards the door, Skorokhodov stumbling and stammering behind him.

The younger man looks back to see Gleb, and his eyes are full of fear – they're begging Gleb to do something, say something. But Gleb is frozen. Skorokhodov and Stepan disappear around the doorway.

Behind him, Gleb can hear Maria stumbling to her feet, trembling gasps escaping her. He turns. Maria has made her way to Anastasia. The younger sister is sitting back in her chair, Maria's face buried in her lap. Her shoulders are shaking. Anastasia is whispering soft, helpless words to her, trying to calm her with shaking hands. She looks up at Gleb and he cannot move. His mouth opens, but his throat is dry. 

"I warned him," Gleb whispers hoarsely. He doesn't know if he says it for her, or himself. "I told him it was dangerous." Anastasia looks away from him. She focuses instead on her sister, sobbing in her lap. She brushes her shaking fingers through Maria's hair, trying to soothe her. Anastasia's eyes shine, wet. Gleb forces himself to turn and walk out the door. He tries to tell himself he's not running away.

He never sees Skorokhodov again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was gayer than expected.


	4. The New Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the darkest part of the night and the world is silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooooowwww this took me forever to write. sorry for that! again, a massive thank you to everyone who read, kudo'd, commented, bookmarked, and subscribed! honestly i get so excited whenever i get an email from ao3 saying that someone liked this monstrosity.
> 
> with that in mind tho, this chapter is decidedly darker… i'll be honest, i almost changed the rating on this fic because of it. so just tread carefully, i guess.
> 
> enjoy!

The heat is stifling at the height of July, even long after the sun has set. It’s the darkest part of the night and the world is silent.

Gleb can’t sleep. He sleeps very little, now.

The House of Special Purpose is different since Maria’s affair. The air is stale and dead. The line between captives and captors has been once again drawn, and everyone seems stunned at the reminder. The Romanovs no longer try to pretend they are anything but prisoners. Anastasia doesn’t provoke him with French or her haughty looks. She just sits with her sisters, her little dog in her lap, looking at the boarded-up window in her room.

Sadchikov won’t look at him anymore. He still hasn’t forgiven Gleb for his role in Skorokhodov’s arrest. Gleb doesn’t think he ever will.

He sits at the sparse wooden table that is the centerpiece of the Vaganov home. His parents are upstairs, sleeping on their shared cot, right next to Gleb’s. His fingers tapped the old wood, his eyes staring into the night, unfocused.

A thundering pound at the door jolts him. Gleb turns his head to stare at it. The door rattles again as it’s hit again and it’s enough for Gleb to finally force himself up. Curiosity prickles his skin, but there's something else there, too – dread. Gleb can feel the ozone in the air, the way the latent energy in the air threatens to rip the sky apart.

A storm has been building. It's ready.

Gleb pulls open the door and immediately regrets it – Yermakov looms beyond the threshold, stinking of vodka and wearing a grin that cuts his face like a scar. Gleb has to fight the urge to slam the door in his face. 

“Glebka,” Yermakov slurs in greeting. He tilts forward like he means to enter the house, but Gleb doesn’t move. Yermakov throws a thick arm against the door frame to support himself. His fingers are curled around a pistol. Gleb is proudly tall, but Yermakov is a bear of a man, stooping to get closer, curving his spine to get in his face. The light catches Yermakov’s eyes. They chill Gleb to the bone. “Where’s Papa?” The vodka is thick enough on his breath to taste. 

“Why do you need him?” he says instead of answering. Yermakov is too drunk – on vodka or his own manic glee, Gleb can’t tell – to strike him for the insubordination, though. His smile grows, and Gleb swears he can see the blood shining on his teeth already. 

“We make history tonight, Glebka,” he responds, taking a stumbling step forward. This time Gleb does move, stepping back despite himself. Yermakov crosses the threshold. “You should be with us, I said. Sorry you’ll miss out.” There are three pistols stuffed clumsily in his belt. Gleb’s blood freezes. His throat is tight and dry. Yermakov takes another step forward, and Gleb steps back. “But Papa, no… Papa wouldn’t hear it. Next time.” He swings a paw up to pat Gleb’s head, but Gleb steps back again, out of his reach. Yermakov advances.

“What are you talking about?” Gleb’s voice is steady, despite his prickling skin and frantic heart.

Yermakov smiles at him sympathetically and Gleb wants to punch him in the mouth. “No one told you.” The urge to assault a superior officer grows. “The adults had a meeting and finally made a decision. We all get one – but I get  _two_.” Yermakov itches his nose with his pistol, his eyes glinting. “The doctor and the German bitch,” he slurs proudly.

Gleb’s heart stops.

“Enough, Yermakov.” His father’s voice cuts through the air, and Gleb jumps, turning. Stepan marches forward with heavy steps. He doesn’t look at Gleb as he passes. Alcohol stains the air around him.

Gleb stammers. “S-sir–”

“Quiet.” Gleb’s mouth snaps shut.

Yermakov’s smile is hungry as he looks between father and son. “Ask who your papa gets, G–“

“ _Quiet._ ” The smile grows. Stepan pushes forward, past Yermakov. “Don’t ask questions, Boy,” he says in a flat, distant voice. “Stay here.” He leaves the house without another word and Gleb is left behind with Yermakov.

A clumsy hand swipes at his cheek and Gleb is jolted back to reality. Yermakov gives him something between a pat and a slap before turning to lumber after Stepan. Gleb can only watch.

“It’s past your bedtime. Sleep well, and wake to a new Russia.” Yermakov barks out one last, drunken laugh. Then he turns and stalks after Stepan, leaving the door open. Gleb stares at the empty doorway, dread creeping up his spine. 

Knowledge he can't hide from, can't ignore or bury, echoes over and over in his mind.

 _They die tonight_.

Commander Yurovsky had been growing more and more paranoid in recent weeks. And with the fighting growing closer and closer to Yekaterinburg, he only grows more unstable. He’s certain the townspeople know the Romanovs are being held in the House of Special Purpose (which granted, they probably _do_ know) and in his mind it's only a matter of time before an escape attempt is made.

Yurovsky can feel his control slipping away and it's making him reckless.

Gleb stops, stunned at himself. Who is he to question a superior officer like that? Of everyone, Gleb has always known this would be how it ends. There was never going to be a happy ending for the Romanov family, he  _knew_ this and he'd  _celebrated_ it. This was necessary for the good of Russia. After all, what was it Lenin had said? "Revolutions are useless without firing squads."

 _He'd kill the boy himself if it meant Russia would be free_.

The words he'd thought just a few months ago whisper again in his mind and Gleb thinks he's going to be sick. He starts pacing around the single room that makes up the first floor of his house, his fingers coming up to tangle in his hair.

Revolution is not glamorous. It's not easy. Gleb has always known this. His fists clench in his hair. Revolution is ugly, but  _necessary._

_This is necessary. The Romanovs had everything! This is justice._

Sadchikov's face flashes in his mind, easy smile, golden hair, a laugh on his lips. His voice murmurs in Gleb's ear.

_But the children? What are they guilty of?_

Gleb's arm flashes out to slam into the wall beside him. Pain shoots through his arm, echoing down his bones. It drives Sadchikov from his mind.

Instead, there is Anastasia. She sits at an open window, daring to lean her face out into the sun. Light threads through her hair and warms her face. Then Yermakov is there and Gleb watches her change. She's a scared girl, shrinking back as Yermakov looms over her.

Gleb slams his eyes shut and brings up the heels of his palms to press painfully into them. He doesn't know how long he stands there, trying to push their faces from his mind.

Gleb is… he's  _proud_ of his father. His father is strong. He does what's  _necessary._

A  _crack_  ignites the air and Gleb jolts, his heart in his throat. Then there’s only deafening chaos. The House of Special Purpose erupts in a cacophony of gunshots, drowning out everything else – everything except the piercing screams that punctuate the night. 

Gleb runs out his front door, only to skid to a stop as soon as he’s crossed the threshold. He stares wide-eyed at the shadow of the mansion. Nothing has changed, visually. Without the sound there would be no hint to the act.

But the  _sound._

The gunshots bleed together and it's impossible to count them. There's a pause in the volley, and for a single, hopeful moment, Gleb thinks it's over. Loud, agonized sobbing echoes from the mansion. It's a girl's voice.

Gleb flinches when another gunshot pierces the air, and then the sobbing is lost again in the onslaught of gunfire. Gleb doesn't know how long it goes on. It feels like a single, horrific moment, stretched out into an eternity. Gleb can't move. He can only stand in the street, bearing witness. Others join him, drawn out by the noise. The citizens of Yekaterinburg are standing inside their doorways or out on the street like him. No one moves. They're all as transfixed as he is. Parents kneel at their children's sides, hugging them close. One man is on his knees, looking to the sky.

The gunshots grow farther apart. There are no voices left in the mansion. The last bullet is fired, and then there is silence. Hollow, echoing silence. It threatens to pull Gleb down, trapping him here in this moment. Gleb is frozen and shaking in the warm Summer air.

His body doesn't want to move. Gleb doesn't know what to do. At first, all he can manage is his eyes. He glances around at the people around him. They're all silent statues, like to move would to make this moment real, and no one can manage that. 

A teenaged girl stands alone in the road. She’s in her nightclothes, like everyone else. Her feet are bare. Her hair, the color of the spun gold the nobles used to thread through their clothes, hangs in messy curls down her back. Her arms are limp at her sides. She stares at the mansion, her lips parted. Tear tracks stain her cheeks. She turns her head to meet his gaze.

Gleb tears his eyes away and stumbles forward towards the mansion. Before he realizes what’s happening, he’s sprinting down the road.

The rocks on the road cut at his bare feet but he can't feel them. He can't feel the pain in his fist. All he knows is the mansion growing closer. Gleb runs to the gate and forces it open. It's unguarded. He comes crashing into the party to see a flurry of activity. Men are stumbling out of the mansion, most with haunted looks in their eyes. They retch and cough, smoke pouring out of the door behind them. Some are carrying limp bodies over their shoulders. One man is throwing up against the wall of the house.

Commander Yurovsky is frantic, yelling at them, panic cracking his voice. He points to an old truck sitting a few meters to Gleb's left. The men carrying bodies start heading towards it. One by one they swing the bodies off their shoulders to drop them in the back of the truck. It groans and sinks with each new, bloody weight.

Gleb doesn't see his father.

Yermakov comes sauntering through the door, barking laughter. He can barely hold himself upright. He swings his arm around the shoulders of a nearby soldier, who tries to flinch away from him. But Yermakov only pulls him closer, shaking him as they walk away from the door.  

A bark chimes from inside the house and everyone pauses to turn and look. Anastasia's little dog comes running out the door. Yermakov's smile turns wicked and he shoves the soldier away from him to yank another man's bayonetted rifle from his hands. The dog tries to sprint past him.

Yermakov turns the rifle and skewers the dog mid-step. His laugh can't drown out the pained yelp and whimper that escape the dog. Yermakov turns the rifle so the bayonet points up. The dog is still on it. Blood follows the arc the bayonet makes in the air, black in the darkness. The dog's whimpering grows more frantic. Gleb can't look away as Yermakov lets out a triumphant roar, hefting it up and looking to his fellow soldiers. But they all look away, unwilling to be a part of his brutality, but doing nothing to end it. Another man throws up.

Yermakov throws the rifle away and it lands on the ground with a crack and a whimper. The dog is silent.

Yurovsky barks an order at Yermakov from the truck and he starts walking towards it. No one has noticed Gleb yet.

One last figure emerges from the doorway – Stepan. He's carrying a body over his shoulder. It's small, wearing a bloody dress, with long, tangled hair hanging down. Stepan walks with heavy steps towards the truck. When he reaches it, he swings the body over his shoulder. One hand catches its head, keeping it from slamming into the other bodies. He lowers it slowly. Then he steps away to stare down at the pile.

Gleb has never seen his father look so small before. He takes a step forward. As if sensing his presence, Stepan looks up. His eyes meet Gleb's. Gleb freezes.

He's not supposed to be here. His father had told him to stay home and he  _disobeyed_. But something holds him in place as his father takes drunken, stumbling steps towards him.

Stepan lurches towards his son, barely holding himself up with clumsy steps. Gleb flinches back. But Stepan is upon him, and clasps a heavy hand over the back of Gleb’s neck before he can move, and yanks him forward. The grip on Gleb’s neck is painfully tight, but he doesn’t dare try to escape. He is face to face with his father, heads bowed, foreheads almost touching.

The first thing Gleb notices is the smell – smoke and sweat and  _iron_ cling to his father like rainwater, choking the air around him. His breath comes out torn and ragged. There’s something foul on his breath, acrid and thick. Gleb almost gags.

His eyes are wide, stained red around the edges, and the pupils are so large they leave little room for the dark brown of his iris. He won’t meet Gleb’s eyes. Clean, damp lines cut through the dirt on his face, glistening in the night. A realization hits Gleb so hard it steals the breath from his lungs. 

Stepan Vaganov has been crying.

He pulls Gleb forward, their foreheads finally touching. Stepan closes his eyes and Gleb watches as he clenches his jaw. Stepan takes a shaking breath, but it hitches. The grip on Gleb’s neck tightens. His father is shaking.

“A man–” he chokes out, his voice hoarse. He takes a breath that’s almost a gasp, trying to swallow. “A man makes painful choices, Son.” It comes out as a whisper. Stepan opens his eyes finally and locks them with Gleb’s. Stepan stares, desperate and searching. Gleb doesn’t know what he hopes to find.

Gleb doesn’t know what to do. He feels as lost as his father is.

They stand there, frozen together. Gleb’s fingers twitch, desperate for action. 

Something cold sits in the pit of Gleb's stomach, creeping through his veins like curling, choking vines. What can he do? Retreat? Comfort him? His father squeezes his eyes shut again, more tears escaping to cut tracks in his skin. A silent sob rips itself from him, jolting his body and it's like feeling him shatter.

Gleb is helpless as Stepan lets out another ragged breath, his own broken shards tearing at his lungs.

He identifies the cold pit in his stomach for what it is. 

_Fear._

His father is crying and Gleb is terrified.

He finally forces his hand to move. It's like pushing through gravel as he tries to raise his arm. Gleb is shaking. Something hard and painful claws at the back of his throat and he can't swallow around it. His eyes burn. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. Finally his fingers come up to touch his father's cheek–

Stepan retreats. Without the hand gripping his neck, Gleb is off-balance. When he finally regains his bearings, Stepan is standing away from him, at an angle. He's looking down. Gleb blinks at this new reality, trying to find anything to grab hold of, to anchor himself in this nightmare. He takes a step forward.

"Go home," Stepan commands. But the words are soft and hollow. Gleb freezes, staring at him. Stepan finally glances up to meet his eyes. But the moment is gone too soon and his father looks away again. Gleb thinks he sees shame in his eyes. "Be with your mother." Then he turns on his heel and walks away.

Gleb watches his retreating back. Stepan marches to the truck to meet with Yurovsky and Yermakov. He climbs to stand in the bed with the corpses and the truck roars to life. It pulls out onto the road and Gleb watches as it drives away.

The Romanovs are gone. Only silence remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one chapter left!


End file.
